There was an internet discussion some time ago where people gave animals that scared them new names in order to make them seem silly or less scary; for example, alligators were renamed “murder logs”, stingrays were renamed “sea pancakes”, raccoons became “trash pandas” and so on.  It was (as intended) somewhat inane, but it made me laugh.  The renaming that made me laugh the hardest was one of the titles for a snake: “Danger noodle.”  I don’t necessarily love snakes, but I’m not afraid of them either, and the snakes here in Wisconsin are generally not dangerous.  Still, I can certainly understand why snakes might be a bit scary to people who ever haven’t been around them, or in an area where they are more dangerous.  I would venture to guess that most of us have our own animal analogous to a “danger noodle”, i.e., something that scares us perhaps out of proportion to the threat that they really represent.  I certainly have mine, but it will require a little bit of a flashback to explain…

…“What the hell just happened?!” was the first thought I can recall as I picked myself up off the ground, brushed off my clothes, and started picking the dirt out of my hair and teeth.  Just a few seconds before, I had been on a relaxing stroll through the southern Illinois woods with my mom and sister, who had made the trip to my college town for a visit.  Then, in an instant, I was face down on the ground, checking myself for broken appendages (none), bruises (a few), and a concussion (maybe).  Oh, did I mention that we were trail riding on horses?  Apparently, the horse flies were biting that day, and my rental horse decided that she didn’t like that, so she vented her frustration by yeeting her unsuspecting rider (me) onto the forest floor.  I did manage to brush myself off and finish the ride – sore, nursing a pounding headache, and with a bit of double vision.  Good times.  That was the first and last time I’d been on a horse in my life. 

Fast forward a couple of decades, when my then-new-girlfriend told me that she owned a horse, and asked if I would like to meet her.  Gulp.  She has a horse.  “No, not really.  Not ever.  Not even once,” said my inner monologue.  But, not wanting to look like a big coward in front of a girl I was trying to impress, I consented, and off to the barn we went.  Confronted with her 1,000+ pound murder-beast (in reality, a very tame and well-trained mare used to teach children), I could only think of all the ways that this massive and surely ill-tempered thing could kill me – stomp-murder, kick-murder, bite-murder, stampede-murder…all legitimate possibilities in my mind.  When asked if I would like to ride, I hid my low-grade terror under a calm exterior, politely declined, and walked off to hang out with a rather old and very fat miniature donkey named Woodrow, who was boarded at the same barn.  I liked fat little non-threatening Woodrow.  He was little and old and slow and much more my speed.  As time went on, I did briefly climb up onto the horse once or twice, but I wasn’t overly jazzed about it, and generally deflected further invitations to ride the evil death-merchant. 

Fast forward another year or so, when I and my girlfriend (now fiancé) were planning a long weekend trip out west.  She suggested that we do a trail ride in the red rocks area, west of Las Vegas.  Sigh.  Again, not wanting to look like a coward, I agreed, figuring that when I was buck-yeeted off of the horse this time, it’d be a quick death as I tumbled down the side of a mountain onto sharp rocks and giant cacti.  Wisely, my fiancé suggested that I take a horse-riding lesson or two beforehand, so I would have some idea of what I was doing when we rode in the Nevada mountains.  Sigh. After all those years flying fighter jets, this is how it all ends.  Ok fine.  My first lesson took place on an old quarter horse named Otis; I was mostly afraid of either falling off or doing something dumb that would annoy the horse and result in me being tossed into the nearest hay bale.  I got through the lesson, but I didn’t particularly like it.  The second lesson was much the same, but this time, I noticed that maybe, just maybe, Otis wasn’t trying to kill me; he waited patiently for me to futz around getting into the saddle, and was very calm and compliant as we went through a few basic horsemanship lessons for probably the millionth time for him, even though I’m sure I was tense and doing most everything wrong.  After the lesson, I gave him a few treats and a scratch behind his ears before putting him out to pasture.  Maybe old Otis wasn’t so bad after all… One more lesson, and it was actually kind of fun; I was still a little nervous and making a lot of mistakes, but I felt like I had an idea of what was happening, and I was enjoying the process of learning a lot more and being afraid of dying a lot less.  By the time we got out to Vegas a couple of weeks later, I was actually looking forward to our ride, and had a blast.  I couldn’t wait to get back to Wisconsin and resume lessons, which I have been doing ever since. 

I’ve asked myself many times since then, how was it that I went from wanting nothing to do with horses to actually being excited about horse lessons and horsemanship?  I didn’t fully realize it at the beginning, but it seems apparent now that the beginning of my horsemanship journey was largely an exercise in overcoming fear.  Maybe that sounds funny coming from a fighter pilot and war veteran, but that’s the truth – my (one) previous experience on a horse was negative and painful, and I simply didn’t want to get hurt again.  Not to mention the fact that while I’m fit and in good health, I’m not a young man anymore, and I rely on my physical well-being to do my job as an airline pilot; a horse-riding injury could have very real implications on my ability to work.  So, I felt like I had valid reasons for having a bit of trepidation around the horses.  At the same time, my fear was getting in the way of me seeing all of the things I enjoy about the horses now – I love animals, I love the outdoors, I love learning new things, I love a good challenge, and it’s a fun activity I can share with my wife.  Winning!

It’s not like this was some grand feat of bravery or courage on my part; it wasn’t, but that’s not really the point.  The point, for me, was confronting a fear from one bad experience and getting on the horse.  And then getting on the horse again. And again. And again.  In a way, it has been an exercise in fortitude, the virtue that enables one to persist through fear or discomfort in pursuit of good.  While this was for a not-important leisure activity in my case, the same virtue is one we need as humans to overcome fear and persist through all kinds of trials and challenges.  To paraphrase Thomas Aquinas, the true value in the exercise of fortitude is in the development of a mind and spirit that, by nature and habit, acts with fortitude, which leads to a happier and more fulfilled life (Summa Theologica, Q123, A.7).  In other words, for Aquinas, fortitude begets more fortitude, which is a quality we will all need in varying degrees throughout life.  

I have my own horse now, a pretty buckskin quarter horse.  In a similar spirit to that old internet discussion, I nicknamed her “Noodle” to remind me that this big animal isn’t so scary, and to remind me that the fortitude and persistence I exercise in horsemanship will benefit me and those around me in other spheres of my life.  Not to mention, it’s silly and makes me laugh – how can you call a beautiful and majestic 1,000-pound animal “Noodle” and not laugh?  Going forward, I have no doubt that there will be times when the horse will scare me again.  Maybe I’ll fall off again.  I don’t know.  But I do know that I will get back on the horse. 

AB3